


and still the Seelie come calling

by illuminatiny (fleurdelilitu)



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Changelings, F/M, Family Curses, Family Pacts, Grief, Pining, but also a lot about love and a lot about magic, the Fair Folk, this is mostly about grief and mostly about time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurdelilitu/pseuds/illuminatiny
Summary: Before John Blythe died he made sure to teach his son three very important things: a gentleman must always be courteous and respectful to others, carry a silver pocket watch, and never forget to leave offerings for the fair folk.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & John Blythe, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 82
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

Before John Blythe died he made sure to teach his son three very important things: a gentleman must always be courteous and respectful to others, carry a silver pocket watch, and never forget to leave offerings for the fair folk.

“This is a new, strange land,” he told Gilbert, during their last autumnal harvest together. “We don’t know the ways of the creatures that inhabit it or the customs of the people who were here first, but we know what we brought with us, and Blythe men have always known not to forget to appease the fair folk. In turn, they will treat you kindly.” Gilbert had only nodded in response, solemn and serious at only seventeen years old.

“Always put aside the first slice of bread, first glass of cream and first knob of butter. Take the best fruits of the first harvest, and the best fruits of the last. These need to be left out back, never by the front. They will not come that way. Grandfather Blythe buried a witch bottle containing iron nails out front when he built the homestead, and you do not want to be seen to be luring the fair folk towards that which affronts them.” Together they had selected the best apples from that final harvest, and John had taken Gilbert to the place where he made his offerings to show him once again how it was done.

“Keep an open mind and open heart, learn all you can from the first people, and do not forget to continue to honour the fair folk who have made us their own.” John had reminded Gilbert, as the snows set in and he stoked the fire.

“We brought them with us, and they expect to be treated in the manner of which they have come accustomed. Remember to always leave a plate out when hosting, especially on the holy day feasts. The odd wine or ale wouldn’t be remiss either.” John was very frail that final winter, his lungs rattling with each breath and his hazel eyes meeting those of his son without humour. They both knew what was coming.

The day John dies, Gilbert tucks his father’s heavy silver pocket watch into his own pocket, smoothing a thumb over the inscription rendered illegible by the repetition of that very same gesture made by generations of Blythe men. He leaves the room in silence, rinses his hands with cold water, and sets about gathering the offerings he had seen his father make hundreds of times before. He covers all the mirrors and opens every door in the house, then wraps himself in his heaviest wools and furs to sit on the porch steps and wait.

The fair folk come long past twilight, when the winter night has set in and the air is still. Gilbert has watched the mist roll over the hills and into the valley, the lights sparking up over Avonlea, and he has longed for warmth and for comfort and instead stubbornly thought about nothing and stayed very, very still. When they come, the night is blackened velvet and the cold has set into his bones. He sees shadowy figures in the mist and he bows his head, eyes stinging. They move like fluid, and he feels the hand of one brush through his curls, their fingers light and cool like a gust of wind. He keeps his head bowed and eyes on his own clasped palms. When the last one has entered his home, he rounds his shoulders and stares unblinking at the crescent moon that hangs low above the fog.

At the midnight hour, an otherworldly chorus sings out a lament for a fallen friend, and the last living Blythe weeps to the sound of wailing women whose faces he will never see.

In the morning his father is still dead, and Gilbert is all alone in the world. His father’s lawyer and the undertakers respond to his early morning call, casting suspicious looks at the covered mirrors and open doors. The house is still unheated, an open skeleton that feels all the more empty now that the fair folk have taken their leave. The lawyer runs through John’s will, like they have a hundred times before, gives his condolences and shakes Gilbert’s hand. The undertakers take John’s body, and Gilbert goes walking.

The orchard is dormant, bare trees littered with snow. The lane to the Cuthberts is nothing more than a rainbow in shades of white and grey. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps walking. Anne finds him halfway there and stares at him solemnly. “You’re going to break her heart,” she says. “Mine is already broken,” he responds tiredly.

Anne spins in circles around him, and then stamps a foot. “The Cuthberts are my people. I understand their feelings far more than I do yours.” The words are not meant to be cruel, but they are. Her eyes are wide, her skin translucent, and the ethereal flames of her hair are tied back in a single loose braid. Anne Shirley is beautiful, and in this moment Gilbert hates her for it. He pulls a ribbon out of his pocket, vibrant purple and silky soft. Anne eyes it greedily and he lets it fall between them. She seizes it before it can hit the ground. “Please. Go away," he tells her, and she disappears without a word. Gilbert feels a shiver run up his spine and the hair stand on the back of his neck.

When he reaches Green Gables, the Cuthberts are waiting for him on the porch. Tall and iron haired, Marilla and Matthew receive him in silence and bow their heads at the news. He can see sorrow write itself across Marilla’s face and he wonders at this woman who his father once loved, long ago.

“I will be leaving for Redmond University in September,” Gilbert tells them, “I can hire Pacifique Buote and Jerry Banyard to mind the cattle and work the orchards when the season turns, but I will need someone to leave offerings.” Marilla looks at him with cool assessment. “In return, we want you to take care of our Anne.” Gilbert starts at that. “With all due respect,” he murmurs, a frown creasing his brow, “Anne is not exactly fond of me.”

Marilla purses her lips. “Be that as it may, you are of a similar age and you know her nature. I am well aware she can take care of herself, and I am not asking you to court a woman unwilling to be wooed,” Gilbert ignores the ache of disappointment that goes off in his chest at the truth of that statement, “I’m asking you to keep an eye on her. To be her friend. Anne has learned many of our ways, but there are still things she does not yet comprehend.” He manages to hold back his bitter laugh at that, and the girl in question appears at Marilla’s side.

Gilbert offers his hand to the Cuthberts. The two siblings exchange a look, and Matthew shakes his hand. The deal is made: Matthew will oversee the Blythe Orchard in Gilbert’s absence, and take care of the business no one else on the Island would understand or dare touch. Anne stares at Gilbert and he stares right back. Decorum and propriety has never managed to apply to Anne. His ribbon is wound haphazardly around her braid, the frayed tails tied in a neat bow at the end.

“I was callous, Mr Blythe,” she says smoothly, grasping his hand in both of hers. Her hands are cool and pale, and he takes notice of how small they are, clasped around his own. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss, please accept my condolences.”

There are otherworldly green lights in her grey eyes and tears shimmer at the surface. Gilbert can feel the flush in his cheeks and he wishes, like he has every day since Anne came to the Island, that she did not affect him like this. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and she puts her arms around him.

The Cuthberts look on in silence, and Gilbert is rendered speechless. They are of a height, and he can feel Anne’s cheek pressed against his own. Numbly, he gathers her in his arms and marvels at how light she is, like a hollow boned bird. When she pulls back, her eyes are clouded grey and she looks for a moment like she is truly made of the same flesh and blood as he. “I look forward to spending the years ahead with you,” she murmurs, and he blinks in shock.

When he opens his eyes again, she is gone and Gilbert is half convinced he imagined the whole thing. He promises the Cuthberts he will send details of John’s funeral, and bids them farewell. They watch him leave with twin looks of trepidation on their faces.

Gilbert slowly makes his way back to his homestead. He closes all the doors, leaves a few coins out back, and builds a fire inside. There are arrangements to be made, and affairs to get in order. Sitting at the hearth, Gilbert finally feels warmth returning to his bones, and he settles in for his first night alone in the old house of Blythe Orchard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm procrastinating and struggling to make progress on other work, so here's a little something to sate my own need for the fantastical. I hope this brings some enjoyment, do please let me know what you think~


	2. Chapter 2

When Anne first came to the Island, the entire town couldn’t stop talking about it. The Cuthberts had adopted an ugly red haired orphan, tittered the gossips. They must have lost their minds to take in a motherless girl, whispered the busybodies.

“That child is a changeling,” said John Blythe to his son, “and you have offended her. You will need to offer her colourful things. They like ribbons and bells.” Gilbert, all of thirteen at the time, had scowled. “Nobody believes in faeries,” he replied angrily, rubbing at the lump on his head where Anne had slammed her slate hours earlier. “I just wanted her to look at me!”

John had seized his collar then, wild eyed and thin lipped. “You do not use that word on this property Gilbert John Blythe. You have offended one of the fair folk today, be careful not to offend any others.” His hands had trembled, and he had pushed the boy away, leaving the house to make offerings of peace to his damn faeries.

Gilbert had sat on the settee to sulk about his crazy, superstitious father and the pretty girl with flame coloured hair who had declared him a mortal enemy. At thirteen Gilbert considered himself pretty well grown, and he didn’t hold with his father’s nonsense. Billy Andrews had teased him for years for believing in the fair folk, and in time it had turned nasty. He had said that Gilbert’s family was cursed, and that was why his mother had died.

“Killed her at birth, didn’t ya? Guess your faeries only want to keep the Blythe men around.” This was said with a lascivious gesture, and Gilbert had trembled all over in rage. The idea made him feel awful inside. He had vowed then and there that magic wasn’t real, and told Billy he was a nasty piece of work to say such things about his dead mother.

The idea of a family curse worried him all the way home though, and he had to wonder: if the so-called fair folk were real, then why didn’t anybody else have to deal with them anyway?

“When we came here, many of the fair folk did not follow.” John had told Gilbert when he had asked. “The land was already occupied, and many fair folk are not fond of the iron in the sand.” John had pulled out his pocket watch, rubbed a thumb over the silver casing. “Our fair folk are different. They can live with the iron, as long as it is not shaped by fire. Then they do not like it. Grandfather Blythe knew that before he left Albion. He struck a deal, and we have taken care of one another ever since.”

Gilbert had remained unconvinced. Believing in fair folk and magic pacts was childish, and if the Blythe family had a curse on its women it was probably because his father went about being ungentlemanly: accusing cute girls he hadn't even met of being changelings and the like. Anne was dreadfully pretty and wicked smart though, and he really was sorry for pulling her hair, even if she had been snubbing him for no good reason.

To make amends, he picked her the most luscious strawberry apple he could find, and left it on her desk at lunch. When she saw it, she had caressed it in her palm as if it were something precious, then spun to him with a scowl on her face. “I will not be bought, Mr Blythe,” she hissed, dropping the apple to the ground.

It had made a dull thud and rolled to his feet, and he had bent to pick it up. Something in her face shifted then, and her eyes seemed to glow green. Gilbert had stared at her until her face shifted back and she had looked up at him with disquietude.

He had then slowly, as slow as could be, drawn a shiny gold ribbon out of his pocket and offered it to her, tangled in the palm of his hand. Her eyes had flashed green again, darting between his face and the ribbon again and again, until she had snatched it out of his palm and scurried away from him.

He watched her go in mute disbelief, with a sinking feeling in his gut and his father’s warnings ringing in his ears. From that day on Gilbert never left the house without a ribbon in his pocket, and never questioned his father’s wisdom again.

When he was fifteen years old, he had found Anne dancing in the woods that lay between Orchard Slope and Green Gables. "I'm celebrating my birthday," she had said, and he didn't tell her that he already knew, that it was the reason he had come to find her. Instead, he had met her silvery gaze and offered her a full array of ribbons and feathers in a range of vibrant purples, blues and greens.

She had laughed in his face, then put him to work braiding tiny plaits through her hair. It had taken over an hour. Each ribbon and feather was put to good use, and when it was done she had thanked him with a smile, then told him to go away. “If you please Mr Blythe, I am to meet with the Barry girls for afternoon tea. And you would do well to remember that I cannot be bought!”

He had wandered home in a daze, still feeling the silk of her hair on his fingertips. His father, watching him warily, had asked him if he had yet appeased the changeling, and he had shaken his head: “Not yet, Father. But today she smiled at me, and do you know the world seems to still whenever she graces me with a kind look… All I could want is to please her. I think I might love her Father, tell me, what can I do?”

John had gone still then, and for a moment only his harsh breathing and searching gaze filled the silence between them. Taking his old pocket watch out to turn over in his hand, John had sat down heavily and told Gilbert that he frankly did not know. “I know you seek to win her favour, Gilbert, but it is a dangerous idea to court one of the fair folk. You are young yet and you do not know what love is, keep your heart close and only give it to someone who can return it to you well cared for and unharmed.” Gilbert simply nodded, disappointment on his face, and never said another word about it.

In the years that followed, though, he would replay that conversation in his mind, along with everything he had been taught about changelings, and try very hard not to fall in love with Anne Shirley. This was futile: he had given her his heart before she had shown him her true face. The fair folk are greedy and inclined to pretty things, and even one raised amongst the mundane could not easily give up the beauty of a true and loving heart.

After John’s death, spring comes slow to the Island. Gilbert makes his offerings, tends to the land, and writes down everything his father had ever told him about the fair folk. Some days he can see shadowy figures flickering at the edges of his vision. Some nights he can hear the voices of a distant, otherworldly chorus. 

Anne offers him a gentle companionship, subtly weaving her presence further into his daily life as if she had not spent five years treating him with cool indifference. At school she looks at him little, speaks to him less, but he can feel the weight of each warm glance, each friendly word. At the end of each week, he walks her home to Green Gables, and she carves narratives in thin air that settle around his skin like a blanket.

When he is alone, he feels unspeakably angry that it took his father’s demise for her to drop her icy distance. When he is alone, he thinks of how he cannot keep away from her and of how it feels like skeletal fingers are poking holes in the gaps of his ribcage. When he is alone, he thinks of the future ahead, of leaving the Island with Anne at his side, and he misses his father. He tries with difficulty to recall which of John Blythe’s endless pieces of wisdom might best help ease the aching yearning in his heart, and the cold fury in his veins.

At the edge of summer, in that hesitant, delicate space between the end of the school term and before the first summer harvest, Gilbert arrives at Green Gables with his arms full of wildflowers. He drops them into Anne’s lap, and they spill over her skirts, cascading out across her arms and knees in hues of blue, pink, yellow and white. Her gaze is piercing and vibrant, and Gilbert meets it directly. “Come dance with me,” she says. “The Haunted Woods are waiting.” 

When she stands, the flowers scatter around her in a perfect circle. She laughs, a light merry thing, and takes a step towards him, crushing blooms under her bare feet. He pulls out his pocket watch to check the time, and Anne’s smile widens until it is dazzling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading and stay safe everyone! ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

The woods around Avonlea are lush and wild. They start up alongside the apple orchard that runs down the slope from George Barry’s farm to Green Gables. At the edge of Green Gables, the forest thickens considerably. It curves gently around the Cuthbert farm and then billows out into an ominous density that marks the south western edge of the village. If one who did not know the woods and their nature were to venture in, he would surely get lost in the seemingly endless vegetation. Those who know the lay of the forest, however, might find and follow the markers that lead the way to the village of the first people. 

The first time John Blythe took Gilbert down to meet the first people was when he was thirteen years old, and had just learned to appreciate the wisdom of his father. He was ready, John had told him, to understand and respect the ways of the people who had come before. 

Anne does not lead Gilbert into the dense forest that surrounds Green Gables, but instead follows the brook down into the hollow at the bottom of the Cuthberts’s garden. She stops briefly at the spring that bubbles up there, throwing Gilbert a smile that dazes him, then crosses the bridge that leads into the thicket of woods that lies between her home and that of the Barrys.

Gilbert knows this wooded lane well, just as he knows the path deeper in the woods. Over the past few years, John had taken him back to the first people. There he was taught how to respect and live with the land. Gilbert had gone back alone only once, to speak with his father’s friend Aluk and his family. They had come to the funeral to pay their respects, ignoring the uncomfortable glances of townspeople. “There is still much for you to learn,” Aluk had told Gilbert, before the first people returned to the woods. “You will know when it is time to visit with us.” 

In the vibrant midday sunlight, the wooded lane of Anne’s Haunted Woods seems remarkably tame, especially in comparison to the older, denser forest to the south. “Travelling this path alone in the oppressive darkness of a long winter night as a young girl was terrifying,” Anne had told Gilbert once, when he had asked why this particular stretch had earned its name. Gilbert had held his tongue at the time, feeling unable to tell Anne that he had not thought her afraid of anything. 

He tells her this now, after they veer off the path and amble into the woods proper. Anne stares at him, and under her scrutiny he wonders what his father would have thought of this impromptu bout of direct honesty. “Why would you say such a thing?” She asks, her voice cold and gaze heated. Gilbert shrugs, bypassing the fury in Anne’s eyes and instead tracing his gaze down the long, smooth line of her neck. “You were dancing in the snow,” he says, “the ground was dangerous and covered in ice. It was your birthday, not yet spring. You were fearless, and you danced.” 

Anne takes a step closer, and he startles. Her eyes have gentled, and he wonders what had maddened her. She takes his hand in her own, places his arm around her waist, and leads them in a slow, close waltz. The rhythm is off kilter; their only music is the disjointed chatter of birds, and rustling of the breeze in the boughs above. Anne stares unblinkingly into Gilbert’s eyes and he feels uncomfortably aware of the pad of her thumb, pressing into the exposed flesh above his clavicle. Being able to feel the soft dip of her waist under his palm sets alarms off in his mind. He can hear his father's warnings ringing, and he ignores the echoes in his ears to hold Anne as close as he dares. 

Time in this slice of the woods feels liminal. The golden summer light is filtered green through the foliage, and Anne’s eyes glow, and glow, and glow. Gilbert knows that he needs to step away, to check the time and guard his heart. Anne’s thumb presses into his skin and he can’t take his eyes off of her. She’s smiling again, and he blinks to check if it’s real. “You’ve taken the lead,” Anne tells him, and he glances at their feet. 

At the sight of the ground beneath them, Gilbert comes to an abrupt stop and Anne falls into him, caught off guard. She picks herself up off his chest and he wills himself to not pull her closer, slowly removing his arm from her waist and laxing his grip on her hand. Anne’s gaze follows his to the poppies that have sprung up around their feet: unnatural blooms of lush verdant greens, royal purples, electric blues and vivid golds. “Oh,” she says, and her voice is small. 

In the glowing green light of the glade, Gilbert could almost swear there is a flush to her cheek and that she is refusing to meet his eyes. He shakes his head in a daze, and in a voice that does not sound like his own he asks her the time. 

Anne looks almost hurt, for a second, and he watches her warily as her face crumples completely and then hardens back up into sharp angles and stubborn chin. “How should I know,” she hisses, tugging her hand out of his, “you’re the one always carrying around that damn stupid watch.” Gilbert shakes his head again, coming to his senses, and pulls out the heavy silver timepiece. In his peripheral vision Anne tries to slip away, and he catches a hold of her arm before she can flee. 

He wants to ask her what’s happened, why the flowers grew, why she’s angry, but he knows she won’t answer him. He opens his mouth to apologise, and instead the question that’s haunted him for years slips out. “Why do you hate me?” Gilbert’s cheeks burn at his own plaintive tone. Anne’s wrist is still grasped loosely in his hand but he cannot raise his eyes to meet hers, instead fixating on a particularly violet bloom. 

“I don’t,” she responds in an irritated voice. He rolls his eyes. “Why did you, then?” She lets out an exasperated huff. “Because you know, you knew, what I am.” Gilbert furrows his brow and looks at her directly then, only to find her glaring at the poppies with narrowed eyes. “But, I didn’t.” Anne sighs deeply, tugs her arm away from him once more, and collapses onto the ground. Her movements are almost comically graceful, and he slowly kneels down in front of her. 

“I just want to be normal,” she bursts out, “I could see it, see that you were touched by the fae, that you’d know, or you’d think you knew, what I am. And you did, didn’t you? I still have that gold ribbon. I can’t help it. It’s a compulsion. I need them, I keep them all.” 

Anne sounds so pained, and Gilbert finds himself aching to comfort her and not knowing how. He swallows down the sensation with difficulty. “What do you mean, touched by the fae?” He asks, and is comforted by the fact his voice doesn’t shake. Anne casts a significant look at him and shakes her head, doesn’t respond. Her fingers start snapping off the heads of the poppies, and she gathers them into her lap. 

“I know what you call me, you know,” she says, and Gilbert responds swiftly: “I don’t call you anything.” She scoffs at that, lets out a high brittle laugh that sounds forced, unlike Anne. “Oh yes, you do. You and your father, marked by the fae, thinking you know what I am. And it’s all wrong. You’re wrong. Because, because they didn’t steal her, you know. She was dead, she wasn’t _stolen_. She wasn’t coming back. I was a gift, and they loved me.”

There’s a definite flush to her cheeks now, and Gilbert can’t breathe, overwhelmed by this sudden influx of information. She looks at him directly now, and her eyes are so full with anger he feels it to his bones. “But go ahead, call me a _changeling_. As if I was part of some nasty trick. As if I haven’t had to make my way on my own, with no one to guide me, and always wondering if they really loved me as much as the girl they lost. Knowing that those who see what I am will blame me for their deaths. It’s been five years of knowing how awful you must think me.” 

“I don’t think you’re awful,” Gilbert responds rapidly, but Anne is crying in earnest now. Her heated gaze has given way to silent tears that track across the planes of her cheeks. “And what about the ones who gave me away in the first place? Did they even care, that I would have to figure it out alone? I just want to be treated the same as any other, I just want to be normal.” Gilbert uncomfortably crawls over to her, barely cognizant of his body’s movements, and soothes a palm down over her spine. Her emerald eyes meet his, suddenly clear and piercing. He feels like she can see right through him. He wonders when his body and mind became so disconnected, when sound and vision started being seen through a looking glass.

“I just want to be normal,” she repeats again, and her voice is low and tremulous. “I want to see the fantastical in the world, but only as any other girl might. I want to fall in love with an ordinary person and live a normal life. Wouldn’t that be extraordinary, me living an ordinary life? I could write, and teach, and travel, for I have been blessed with such a vivid scope of the imagination you know, Mr Blythe.” 

The title hits him somewhere between the ribs, pushing him out of that intimate space, and he wants to protest but he finds himself unable to shape words with his mouth. Anne leans forward and embraces him, murmuring into his curls: “I never hated you, but sometimes it is very hard to be known for what I am. All in all, Gilbert Blythe, I would prefer not to be known by you.”

Gilbert pulls away from her at the sound of a quiet, mournful keen. He realises with a shock it has come from him. Anne’s face is soft and unexpectedly kind. “You’ve taken up his mantle and you belong to them now,” she tells him, and he finds his voice again to tell her he still does not know what she means. Anne smiles sadly, and looks at the poppy heads gathered in her lap. “They will show you, one day.”

Gilbert thinks of Anne’s desire for humanity, for a life and a love that is far removed from her own ethereal reality. Far removed from his own engagement with the otherworldly. In this moment, she has shown him more of herself than she ever has before, and in a moment of pure clarity Gilbert understands that his father’s long ago warnings were for naught. Slowly returning to the material plane, Gilbert feels his heart breaking if it were a physical pain, splitting through the chest and sending shock waves down the arms and legs. 

“I love you,” he says, but he doesn’t make a sound. Anne offers him a golden bloom, and he takes it from her slowly. “You’ve given me so many gifts,” she says. “These flowers are echoes brought to life, a testament to our friendship, stirred up by our dance. And we are friends, Gilbert. Is that not the most wondrous thing you’ve ever heard? We are going out into the world together, and we will protect each other.” 

Gilbert, numb, stares at the kaleidoscope of colour gathered in Anne’s skirt. “What did you say about my gifts, Anne-girl? The compulsion?” Anne’s face lights up with pure delight at the new endearment, despite the queer, hollow ring to Gilbert’s voice, the sudden change in subject. “Oh, your ribbons! In all my favourite colours. They’re so pretty, I cherish them all. We find it very hard to let go of pretty things, you know.” Gilbert nods slowly, and as Anne gathers poppy heads in her skirts, he feels his heart slowly settle amongst his other gifts, quietly aching to be picked. He knows now that the time has come, that he needs to voyage back into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments, and my apologies for the delay!! The world is very strange and hard to navigate right now, but I have not forgotten this little fable. Hope all are keeping safe and well ❤️❤️


	4. Chapter 4

Grief is an unfathomable, mysterious thing. It brings people together just as it pulls them apart. It ties knots around the hearts of men and leaves them to hurt; blistering at first like a fresh burn, then aching intermittently like an old injury flaring up in winter frosts. Heartbreak is a lot like grief, Gilbert finds. Another hurt that rings hollow in his chest, bringing hot tears to his eyes and choking up his throat. He is so very tired of loss. Gilbert discovers that he weathers heartbreak with less grace than he weathers grief. This too, hurts him. It feels unbearably unfair.

Gilbert is steady on his feet over uneven terrain, walking steadily through the woods until spruce and larch give way to maple and pine. The forest is darker here, dense and perfumed with the smell of the wild. Gilbert seeks the ancient cedar, the oldest, biggest tree in the forest. The giant that will show him the way. The shadows and sounds of the woods loom around and he keeps walking, sure footed. 

At the ancient cedar, Gilbert stops. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to remember his father’s voice. John had a warm husky timbre and comforting authoritative tone, but the exact quality of the sound is fading. Gilbert continues to breathe deep in an attempt to calm the well of distress that bubbles up at this discovery. He does not yet know how to let go, clinging anxiously to each memory. This, he reckons, is another part of loss. When Gilbert opens his eyes, his vision is clear. He sprinkles water over the old, gnarled roots as thanks, and turns on his heel westward. 

Eventually, the dense heart of the woods once again gives way to dappled light and friendly poplars. Here, a small brook threads silkily over uneven terrain, giving way to a shimmering, clear waterfall. Gilbert follows the water down to where it runs quiet and still. Carefully he navigates the stepping stones across. He can hear now the murmurs of the first peoples, can smell the smoke of their fires and see their village up ahead. He has come seeking answers.

When he arrives he is swiftly directed to Aluk, who is breaking fast with his family. Gilbert is welcomed warmly, and joins the small circle around the cooking fire. He sits cross legged on the bare earth with Aluk’s three children, and feels halfway grown, suddenly humbled and young. “You are ready to learn,” Aluk says and the echoes of John fill Gilbert’s senses. Aluk’s partner Oqwatnuk narrows her eyes. She says something to Aluk quietly in their own language, and he fixes Gilbert with a piercing gaze. 

“You and I share knowledge together of how to best honour the spirits of the land, and the spirits that were brought with your forefathers,” Aluk says carefully. “Remember that in this exchange I can only share that which you need to know. You may not find what you are looking for.” Gilbert nods slowly, reminded sharply of his father’s teachings, and offers Oqwatnuk his basket of breads and cured meats. “Thank you for this opportunity for learning,” he starts. “I wish to share my knowledge and seek your wisdom.” Oqwatnuk accepts the basket in silence, and Aluk invites Gilbert to join their meal.

Aluk speaks first, starting with the histories of the Great Spirit and the creation of the first lands and peoples, before sharing the tales of the forest spirits, the little people. Gilbert has been told these stories here before, though he does not fully grasp them. He responds in turn with the knowledge his father has passed onto him, focusing on detailing the appropriate gifts and behaviours to appease the fair folk. Aluk reminds him of how to appease the forest spirits, and Gilbert listens carefully, answering Aluk’s queries of etiquette and asking his own. 

When they have finished eating, and Aluk’s eldest daughter has ushered away her siblings to do their chores, an old woman ambles over to join them. She greets Aluk and Oqwatnuk in a quiet voice and peers at Gilbert curiously. “This is my mother, the leader of our village,” Aluk says. “You may call her Nugumi. She is our healer and our spirit talker. It is her knowledge that I share with you.” Gilbert’s eyes widen and he bows his head in deference, and the old woman laughs. 

“Aluk,” Gilbert begins hesitantly. “Please thank your mother for her wisdom, for the teachings you have passed on. I am, as my father was before me, very thankful for the privilege of learning with you.” Aluk relays the information, and all three adults stare at Gilbert, waiting. “I do not know how similar your spirits are to our fair folk, or what answers you may be able to give me,” Gilbert continues awkwardly, shifting in his seat. “But I know that I am bound to the fair folk who journeyed to this island with my family. In truth, I do not know fully what this means...” 

Gilbert feels his cheeks heat, pausing before he can continue steadily. “I fear that I have unwittingly given something of myself to another of their realm, and I am worried what this might mean for me.” Aluk’s eyes widen, and he translates Gilbert’s words rapidly. Oqwatnuk laughs abruptly, shaking her head, but Gilbert is focused on Aluk’s mother. Her response is slow coming, and Gilbert waits in silence as Aluk and Oqwatnuk look on. The fragrant smoke of the cooking fire burns Gilbert’s eyes and his breathing is shallow. He keeps his hands on his knees, resisting the urge to trace circles in the earth. Finally, the old woman speaks.

“She says that there is a shadow on your soul... and that you have lost your heart. We cannot tell you the ways of your spirits, but if you have given yourself away to multiple spirits… You must make good with your fair folk, Gilbert. Find balance before they become unhappy with you.” Aluk’s voice is quiet and slow, and Gilbert processes the response unhappily. This is only confirmation of what he already knew, and he can vividly imagine John chastising him. 

“My father told me to stay away from her,” he starts, then stops himself. His father also told him not to seek answers where there were none, and to always receive the gift of knowledge with grace and reciprocation. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and lets it out slowly. Aluk’s mother chuckles quietly. “My apologies,” Gilbert begins again. “Thank you all, for sharing nourishment and offering guidance today.”

Aluk offers Gilbert his hand, palm up. “Thank you for sharing in the nourishment of our bodies and minds today. I hope you find the answers you are seeking, and the spirits are kind to you.” Gilbert takes Aluk’s hand and squeezes gently. The older man’s palm is dry and soft, and his grasp is comforting and warm. He bows his head again to the women, who nod their heads with amusement, then stands to make his way back through the forest. 

He is stopped before he reaches the stream, by a quiet call and a light touch to his shoulder blade. Ka’kwet, Aluk’s eldest daughter, stands behind him. She holds in her arms his basket, now empty, and offers it to him. “Ah, sorry,” he starts awkwardly. “Should I have stayed?” Ka’kwet shakes her head. She is smiling slightly, more open and curious than he’s seen her before. “No, mama and Nugumi wanted me to pass on a message,” she says softly, and Gilbert tenses up. “They say, do not forget your foremothers.” Gilbert furrows his brow, confused. “I’m not sure I understand…” he murmurs, and Ka’kwet‘s smile drops. “Do not forget your foremothers,” she repeats, catching his eye and nodding once. “Go well, Gilbert spirit talker.” She turns and strides off back towards the village, and Gilbert is left feeling stumped.

He crosses the river stones two at a time, and wanders back into the heart of the woods, lost in thought. He’s frustrated. It feels like everyone and everything knows things he doesn’t, like he is constantly ten steps behind. The forest presses close all around, suddenly menacing and daunting. Gilbert isn’t quite sure if he’s lost his way. He stops, pulls out his pocket watch, and watches the second hand tick round, counting his breaths. A minute passes, then another. The clock stops. Every hair on Gilbert’s body suddenly feels like it’s standing on end. A cool breeze wraps around his neck and wrists, and the woods are unnervingly silent. 

“Are you lost, Gilbert Blythe?” The voice is an ethereal chorus of thousands, hushed and screaming and singing all at once. “Would you like to come… dance with us?” The whispers and purrs blend and echo together, and Gilbert is frozen in place. He attempts to clear his throat and chokes as shadow fingertips crawl up his spine. “Never fear, home is near…” The voice of a child singsong harmonises with the comforting murmurs of a mother. The phrases are all bleeding together, and Gilbert can no longer make out any words of his own tongue. He is trapped in a whirlpool of sound that is dizzying, his heart is beating triple time, and he closes his eyes in a desperate attempt to cut out the overwhelm.

Cool fingers wrap tight around his wrist, and he is pulled through bracken ferns and up over broken logs and gnarled roots until he is on the forest path once again, facing the ancient cedar. Anne is glaring at him, with colour high in her cheeks. “What on earth were you thinking?!” she exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. “The woods are fair game! Why on earth would you go off the forest path when you know the fae have a claim on you?” Gilbert shakes his head, running a trembling hand through his curls, and wonders where she came from, how she knew to find him. “I really have no idea what you are talking about,” he says finally, shakily pouring water over the roots in front of them. 

He’s lost his basket, he notes dully. After Ka’kwet brought it back for him and everything. Anne is hissing and grumbling and stomping off up the northern path. He rushes to catch up with her quickly, before the red flame of her hair can leave his sight. There’s a quiet horror at his foolishness seeping into his belly as he slowly processes what has just happened. “How did you find me?” he asks quietly, and she scoffs in response. “I was mushroom hunting! You idiot! And what if I hadn’t been??” Gilbert notices, belatedly, the basket of mushrooms on Anne’s arm, and realises her timely rescue was indeed mere coincidence. 

The horror floods his insides, no longer quiet, and Gilbert feels like his organs are twisting about and turning to stone. He grabs Anne’s wrist and pulls her to face him, feeling as if something wild and anxious is crawling up his skin. “What do you mean, the fae have a claim on me? And what does it mean if I was told not to forget my foremothers?” he asks her, and Anne rolls her eyes, tries to play off the distress that is creasing her brow. “It means, Gilbert, that you are not just your father’s son,” she says impatiently, and shakes his hand off her wrist. “You can’t very well honour and appease the forces you are tied to, if you haven’t been remembering those of your mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again my abundant apologies for the delay between updates. Work and life and the world keeps happening. All of your comments and kudos bring me absolute life, this fic is very near and dear to my very heart and it brings me endless delight knowing people are enjoying it. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!
> 
> I want to acknowledge here that I am neither First Nations or from the Americas at all, I’ve done some research with what little resources are available to me to try my best to make sure this chapter honours Mi’kmaq culture and traditions. If anyone has advice or further resources, do let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

The ephemerality of summer tastes tangible as the days stretch into weeks, and Gilbert keeps close to the farm. He steadfastly works the land and leaves offerings for the fair folk, and does not foray back into the forest. His visits to Green Gables become sparing, though he continues to instruct Matthew in how to pay the appropriate homage for when he is gone in the fall. Gilbert feels untethered, so he grounds himself in the earth, in the material things he can touch and taste, even as he prepares for his imminent departure. September is looming, and autumn begins to play her song of mildew and decay, creeping steadily across the land. 

When he sleeps, however, he cannot escape the immaterial world that seems to cage him. It closes in during the small hours, refusing to relinquish its gently menacing grasp. Gilbert finds that his dreams are filled with poppies made of ribbons and green eyes that cut open his insides, of long black hair that curls into smoke and an uncanny voice that croons lullabies he has never heard. He awakens gasping for air: choking on the images burning behind his retina, and the echoes of a thousand voices calling his name. In the early morning light he catches sight of something spectral in the mirrors, and he wonders if he uncovered the glass too soon. 

After yet another long night of phantom figures sneaking behind his reflection and lingering at the edges of his unconscious mind, Gilbert drapes fabric over every reflective surface in the house. It is not enough to keep the horror gestating in his belly from putting down roots. Each morning he loops cold fingers around his wrist, taking comfort in the pallid imitation of the hand that pulled him out of the woods. He learns to breathe slowly, tries to will out the fear.

The day he wakes to a toadstool ring taking up more than half the front yard, he promptly turns on his heel and stays inside for most of the morning. He cooks breakfast using only what he can find in the larder, taking the time to be deliberate and methodical in his actions. After painstakingly cleaning the crockery and clearing away every scrap, he returns to his room with a freshly boiled kettle of water. He sits on the floor to sharpen his razor, and takes comfort in the warm scent of leather and metal as he runs the blade along the strop.

By the time the blade is ready the water is no longer scalding. He is slow to undress, to clean his body, to wash his face. He carefully shaves the dark stubble creeping along his jaw by the reflection of a mirror too small to show anything beyond his own skin. When he is done, he places the mirror face down on the bureau and dresses carefully, taking note of the sensations of the fabric against his skin, the feeling of the buttons under his thumb. He tidies the room diligently before finally steeling himself to once again face the outdoor world.

When he opens his front door again, Anne is waiting. Her flaming locks are pinned back in an intricate coil, and her eyes appear to be an almost translucent grey, wide and expectant. Gilbert feels his mouth run dry with wanting and, despite the grounding rituals he has just undertaken, wonders for a moment whether he is still asleep. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Anne says, and there is a frown creasing her forehead and tugging at the corners of her pink mouth.

He clears his throat roughly and shakes his head to clear the sudden fog. “I have not,” he denies quickly, looking past her to the yard. The circle seems less overwhelming in the late morning sun, almost harmless. It does not block the path from house to gate, and Gilbert counts that as a small blessing. At this point, he will take what he can get. 

“You have,” Anne accuses him, and her voice sounds odd. He looks at her for a moment, trying to assess her appearance without the bias of unrequited adoration. She looks put out, he concludes, and doesn’t allow himself to wonder why. Gilbert has had enough of inviting devastation. 

“I’ve been working,” he says simply. “I’ve been preparing the land and packing away the house. It’s not too long to go now. I haven’t been seeing anyone.” He looks away from her and starts down the stairs to get a closer look at the toadstools, suppressing the urge to groan. He feels, rather abstractly, that he’s no longer in a position to whinge at whatever new complications are being thrown at him. 

“You see Matthew, that’s seeing someone.” Anne’s voice is petulant behind him, and Gilbert crouches at the edge of the circle, determinedly focused on examining the phenomenon in front. “You do realise you cannot keep avoiding me when we are leaving the Island together in less than a week.” 

“Seeing Matthew is a necessary part of my preparations to leave,” he points out mildly. The toadstools are bright snowy white and luminescent yellow, smudged with dark soil and ash where they sprout out of the earth. The grass beneath them is dead and mouldering. Gilbert takes a slow breath, stands up and turns around. Anne is unbearably close, staring at him with owlish eyes and a disgruntled pout. He can count the seven freckles that paint her nose, making her seem startlingly human. He offers her a half smile and raises his eyebrows. “I’m not avoiding you Anne, and I am sure we will have all the time in the world together once we leave,” he says genially. “Now would you excuse me? I don’t particularly enjoy being this close to the circle.”

Anne’s eyes narrow, and she leans forward until their noses are nearly touching. “Something’s different about you,” she accuses, and Gilbert’s patience breaks. “I would really rather you let me get away from the circle of death caps, Anne,” he snaps. “Though I am sure it is of no concern to you, I would rather not lose myself to a dreaming.” He takes half a step forward, crowding her into sullenly moving aside. 

Anne scowls at him irritably and skulks along behind him as he walks the perimeter of the circle. “I would also rather not lose you to a dreaming,” Anne says haughtily. “Though I suppose it shouldn’t make a difference to me if you go dancing with someone else, seeing as you are avoiding me.” Gilbert stills at that, heart in throat. He turns slowly, exhaling his hopes and dismissing her jealous words as greedy tenacity. The fair folk, after all, do not like to share their possessions. He supposes it shouldn’t be a surprise that she knows he is hers. 

“I’ve been tending to the house and orchard,” he says finally, gazing intently into her stormy eyes. “I’ve been dreaming of the forest, and trying to learn about my mother. I don’t know where to start.” Anne holds his gaze for a beat, searching his face with a chilling intensity. He looks away, feeling unaccountably small. “I am terrified, Anne,” he breathes, and bites back the upwelling of grief that floods his nervous system at the admission. 

“Well. Why didn’t you just say so?” Her response is quietly exasperated, tinged with hurt and something warmly knowing. Gilbert steps toward her unwittingly, and in an instant she moves impossibly closer, lifting a palm to his chin to brush her fingers along a patch of stubble at the edge of his jaw. “You missed a spot,” she says, her breath warm on his lips. The scent of honey and lilies of the valley permeates all of Gilbert’s senses, and he nods towards her. Anne’s touch traces along his jawline tenderly, before she turns away suddenly. “Come inside, the circle can wait.” 

Gilbert follows her in a daze, and she sweeps through the parlour, headed straight to his bedroom. He doesn’t question how she knows the way, or entertain concerns about propriety. It is, afterall, Anne. For a moment he allows himself to be enamoured by the striking figure she cuts, tall and regal, her shiny black boots tapping on the hardwood floor. In his room, Anne pauses to briefly rock back and forth on her heels, before producing a single poppy head. It is void of petals and the otherworldly silvery flesh looks fit to burst, full of seed. She twirls the stem in entrancing loops between her long pale fingers, and an emerald green glow settles behind her irises.

“Where did that come from?” Gilbert asks warily, and Anne’s responding smile is all teeth. “I’ve kept it on hand since our dance in the woods,” she says, surveying the room. She walks over to the bureau and runs a lone finger along the stem of the flower that rests there. The golden poppy has not aged since she gifted it to him. Her smile settles into something softer, and Gilbert feels unsettled. Anne has danced into his home and dragged their ghosts right into the centre of his very bedroom to confront him. 

“I wasn’t aware you were inclined towards reliving the memory,” he muttered, and Anne’s responding laugh verges on scornful. “I took you dancing and gave you knowledge and let you see me,” she says, almost bitterly. “Are we not bound now? Were the gifts I offered that day not indicator enough of affection?” Gilbert stares at her in shock, and feels affront well up in his chest. “You told me you would rather I didn’t know you,” he says in a voice that lacks colour or warmth. “Was that supposed to be a gift too?” 

Anne looks at him through thick lashes, a flush on her cheeks. “You are important to me, Gilbert,” she says softly. “Whether I had originally wanted it or not, I won’t let you go.” Gilbert’s carefully maintained defenses crumble at that, and he can feel the echoes of her breath dancing across his lips. For what must be the thousandth time, Anne fills all of his senses, burning body and mind up with cold rage and heated want. 

As usual, Anne seems completely oblivious to the effect she has on him. She walks away from him, over to the tall mirror that stands in the corner. A thick woollen blanket haphazardly is thrown over the glass. This mirror Gilbert has kept covered since his father’s passing, feeling uncomfortable with its capacity to reflect the whole room even before the phantom figures had started dancing in his peripheries. 

“This covering of mirrors is not one of our customs,” she murmurs, before abruptly pulling the blanket down to the floor in a cascade of dust. Gilbert coughs six times in rapid succession, tasting petrichor and wood chips. Standing hesitantly behind her, he focuses on the wisps of red hair curling against her nape, rather than their reflection in the silver glass. “Who are you afraid you’ll see?” Anne whispers, and their eyes meet in the mirror. Gilbert finds himself fearless. He trembles with want, and is unable to voice a response. 

Anne holds up the silvery seed head and draws a long, sharp fingernail down the length of its swollen mass twice. Gilbert watches as, instead of the pale bitter sap of healing poppies, a viscous and dark liquid leaks out. It congeals quickly around the lacerations, letting off a sweet, tempting perfume. Anne turns to Gilbert with a queer smile, and he watches her slowly lick at, then suckle, the dark sap collecting around the first cut. “Do you trust me?” she asks quietly, and he cannot take his eyes off her wet mouth, sticky and stained wine red. "I do," he responds huskily, and finds that it is true. 

Anne holds the poppy up to his mouth, her eyelids heavy and hand trembling, and he loses himself in the depths of her iron and emerald gaze. She peers back at him, unblinking, as he takes the seed head between his lips, feasting on the sickly sweet sap. When he finally pulls away, his attention unbroken, time stands still, and for a moment nothing exists except Anne, in all of her enchanting splendour. Then all at once he finds himself succumbing to the heady sensation of falling. The echo of her touch gently traces his jaw, circles his wrist, and stabs through his rib cage simultaneously. 

Unsteady on his feet, Gilbert looks to the mirror and notices, as if from a distance, tendrils of black smoke beginning to pool and collect behind their reflection. They look good together, he thinks idly, and the thought blooms all over before he can shut it down and lock it away. Anne is laughing, and her laughter echoes, and there is a woman looking back at them from the mirror. Her hair falls in inky curls that trail off into smoke, and her eyes are hollow under straight black brows. Anne tilts her head to one side, biting back her smile, and Gilbert wants to tell her to stop, can’t understand why she’s so suddenly solemn.

“Gilbert,” she says, and he feels like he is trying to hear her through water. “Did you know this is who you have been running from?” She reaches out a finger, and traces the line of the other woman’s jaw over the glass. Her smile is creeping back and she looks at him then, tender and close, sliding her free hand into his. “This isn’t real Gilbert,” she murmurs, calm and reassuring. “You are not going to find answers looking in mirrors, but neither should you be hiding from them.” The spectral woman smiles, unseeing, and Gilbert wonders whether he himself is shaking or if it is merely his vision. “I have to say, I had no idea,” Anne continues, eyes wide with delight. “You look so much like her.” Nodding, Gilbert stands tall with newly found poise, and entwines his fingers with Anne’s, savouring the feeling of her cool hand in his. Impulsively, he raises her hand to his sap stained lips, brushing a kiss against the back of her palm.

“Anne Shirley,” he begins, with the flicker of a self deprecating smile, “I’d like you to meet the spectre of Mariam Blythe.” The world keeps spinning unsteadily about them, and in the mirror his phantom mother tilts her head and stares straight at Gilbert with dark eyes that suddenly seem focused and clear. “Uh oh,” Anne laughs, colour high in her cheeks as she raises the poppy once again to her lips. “I may have spoken too soon. Have you checked the time lately?” 

Gilbert’s vision continues to ebb and flow in softly rising waves, and the mirror seems to be filling up with death caps, shimmering and luminescent. He fumbles out his pocket watch with his left hand, unwilling to relinquish Anne’s touch. “Hold tight to that,” Anne advises, her voice bouncing and resonating around them. Gilbert quirks a brow at that, steadfastly ignoring the fact their reflections seem to have multiplied. "I always do," he replies absently, and the surface of the mirror ripples like water as if in response. He takes a deep breath and Anne shoots him a smile that looks almost human, then together they step forward through the immaterial barrier.


End file.
